


Rondo

by timid_owl



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Poetry, Jealousy, Lots of it, M/M, Unrequited Love, because I decided that the show wasn't angsty enough, equally bad English, nothing more really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21888649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timid_owl/pseuds/timid_owl
Summary: Each time she leaves, there is a light, a witless, shivering flame litting theivishly inside my chest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 169





	Rondo

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue why it came out in English, but it did, so here we are. Please feel free to correct the shit out of it. 
> 
> For the record, I have read the books and played the games, and never had I thought there was anything remotely sexual between Geralt and Dandelion, until Netflix decided it had its word to say in it

Each time she leaves, there is a light, a witless, shivering flame litting theivishly inside my chest.

She is - I"ll give her that for I am fair, despite what you might think - as gorgeous as they come. I'd praise your choice, perhaps, I'd write a song of those fierce eyes, berhyme this neck, the curl of those lips, the slender frame, had I not known...It is intimidating, truly, how beautiful she is, how cruel she can be. How derisory we all really are.

Each time she leaves, she leaves you be, and lifts the weight of longing from your chest, for it to crawl back, right into mine. Right into hers as well. Sometimes I wish she'd stay - and spare us all this endless sodding circus. Though circus is _my_ element so maybe there is a privilege yet to be found here.

The way you look at her. The way you see her, for who she is, and for who she never will be. Sometimes I wish you'd look at me that way, and see _me_ , with all the things I yearn to tell and seem to fail every bloody time. My tongue's not made to speak, you see, it's meant to sing, to hum, to whistle, sometimes to purr, to seal the words with rhymes, but there isn't much to rhyme with "me" these days, it seems, and everything to rhyme with "her".

Each time she leaves...Sometimes I leave as well. You tell me to, or she does, or the world comes stumbling towards disaster, so each of us should run to meet it. It's hard to not remember, though, the times when I could leave without fear to come back unwanted. I never was - you'd tell me - wanted, in a proper way of things. I'd never sought to. There was the fun, the joy, the money, too. The women, wine and songs - whatever, just get drunk with it and see the smile rising on your lips, as thin and gauzy as the sun on wintertime. I never asked for it, yet here we are.

The hushed and muffled moans. Your breath, your hands, your pulse so calm, so soothing deep inside, so anchoring, so aching, so splendidly ungentle. So delightfully bitter then as it is now, though on my heart and mind deceivingly more often, than on my tongue these days. I'm sure you'd appreciate the irony, had you decided to ever give a second thought. You never had. Perhaps, she would as well. Perhaps she does - it frightens me how much she knows, without really knowing. It's magic, it's not real. Is it though?

Each time she leaves...I should, as it is obvious, drink less. You should drink more. Or talk to me, or fuck me - you'll excuse the tasteless choice of words, I"ll find a metaphor more sumptuous next time. Come, I'll be the one to do the memorizing trick, I will remember it: the rush, the heat, the whispers, you shouldn't bother. As every time she leaves, she does come back again.


End file.
